Sherlock's past
by timtom
Summary: Jim Moriarty had killed himself, and Sherlock had tricked his gunmen into thinking he died. Everyone is safe, right? You can erase the villains in this world, but you can't erase your past. (rated T just in case)
1. Chapter 1

A mist drew out from John's lips, slow and long, like cigarette smoke. Not that he smoked, at all. John shuffled his fingers in his jacket pocket in a feeble attempt to keep them warm. He wished Sherlock would hurry up; rifling through someone else's apartment usually didn't take him more than a few minutes.

Quick in and out, no evidence, he said. Wait out here, I'll just take a few minutes he said.

John sighed again and shuffled his feet this time. A woman in a perk pink jacket and black blouse strode past, she had beautiful blonde hair. She smiled at John, he smiled back. She seemed a bit familiar. She held his eye, and then stopped at the door, put her hand into her purse, and slid her key into the lock.

John frowned, wasn't there something he was supposed to –

"Uh." He uttered. The rattling of the key stopped, and the woman turned, smiled.

"Hello?" she said. She pushed a lock of fair hair behind an ear. John started, and then stopped. What would he say? He couldn't just blatantly tell her 'Oh hey you can't go in there my flatmates currently turning it inside out pursuing evidence that may or may not exist'. John stared at the woman; awkwardly.

"Hello?" she repeated, her face showing slight signs of panic. The key began to move in the lock.

"I...Ah," John tripped over his brain activity. "I was just wondering if you lived here?" Oh good job John, what an ambiguous, cryptic message. I'm sure her brain is mauling overtime, trying to figure out how to answer that. That'll work. That'll buy Sherlock some time.

A frown crossed her face, and her eyes slowly shifted over to the right. "Um, yes." Her voice was quieter. The jiggling of her keys in her lock was a little bit more frantic. "Why?" doubt crept into her voice. Her smile wasn't of honest friendliness anymore; it was a forced smile from fear. If I stop smiling, what would this man do to me? Would he think I was being aggressive? Would that provoke an attack? Best to keep smiling then.

John had an immediate reaction to this, holding up both his hands, trying to render his innocence. . "Oh no, I didn't mean it like that." John frantically flicked words from his mouth. "I just want something from you." Oh great, now he was a tit _and_ a rapist. "No, no I mean. I mean. I..."

A look of understanding suddenly overcame the woman's face. "Oh, are you here to pick up the package?" John stopped.

Hooray.

"Yes! Yes I am." He replied happily. He held out a hand for it. The woman stopped, and then took his hand instead, shaking it, bemused. "Emily Launder, and you are Rodney, right?" she grinned.

Her hand was soft, and as John shook it, it seemed that she was leading the shake. Maybe he was getting old. Just as he was about to lead the shake, she simply coaxed her hand from his. The key turned in the lock, and the hand she shook with returned to the knob. "Come in."

"No!" John cried. Emily flinched, her hand centimeters from the knob. John tried to revive from this tactless strategy. "I mean, I've got some stuff to sort out with you first."

Emily seemed confused, but amused. "Well can't we do it inside? Out of the cold?" her hand went for the knob again. Desperate, John clutched it, bringing it away from the knob, towards him.

"No, I have to do it now, while it's fresh in my mind." he managed. He secretly grinned; nice. Emily paused, but then turned, giving him her full attention.

"Okay then, what is it?"

This is where it gets tricky. "Um." He blundered. "Okay, Emily, how do you know me?"

She frowned. "You're my sister-in-law's pediatrician? At least that's what I was told."

"And what am I picking up?"

"...Her cookbook?"

"And were there any special reasons why _I _am the one picking it up, not her?" She was giving him all the information he needed for this set up. John cackled childishly in his mind, like an evil tyrant who's just cooked up his latest scheme.

"Because she said you were dropping by this area and she lives in, like, Narnia?" Emily was a little doubtful. "Why are you asking all this?"

Crap. "I was just observing something." Observing? What, when did _he _do the observing? "Your sister and you don't have such a close bond right?" now he was getting somewhere. Emily's face was blank for a second, and then the calm of the storm was overcome with outrage. She slapped him, right across the face.

"How dare you! Who are you to talk about my sister and me?" she held her hand up again, and John tried to move out of the way. But Emily held it, and then decided against it, withdrawing her palm. "Don't talk to me." She pushed her shoulder against the door, and turned the lock.

The door opened.

"No, wait!" John yelled. But Emily shut the door in his face. John sighed, and leaned his head against the door; so much for the helpful sidekick. Suddenly the door opened, and John toppled awkwardly into the hallway of the house. He lay sprawled on the carpet; stunned. Then, he managed to regain his balance, and get back on his feet. Around him lay chaos; pillows were flipped, ripped to shreds. Books lay on the floor, pages dog-eared against the floor, spines cracked and loose pages here and there. Crockery and shards of glass lay on the floor, most of it condensing in the kitchen. Chairs overturned, tables flipped and lamps lay smashed and lifeless on the ground. Decorations littered the floor, and there was a gaping hole in the plasma flat screen in the living room.

"What, what happened here?" John managed. A part of his forehead was tender; he must've hit it when he fell onto the floor.

"You tell me." Emily said. "You were the one so adamant on me staying outside."

John rubbed his head. "I didn't...Sherlock." he realized. "Sherlock!" he called. No one answered. He looked around again; Sherlock couldn't have done this. He was meticulous about being invisible. He never changed more than what he had to in order to find evidence – John should know; he had watched him in action.

So where was he?

"Sherlock!" John called again. He began walking toward the kitchen, but something pulled him back.

"Hey! Don't just go wandering about everywhere, this is my house!" Emily stated. "Now tell me, who are you, and what do you want?"

"I'm – I'm really sorry, but I have to find my friend first, he might be hurt." At this Emily's grip on John's jacket relaxed, but not so much that John could leave her side.

"Your friend did this?" Emphasis on the friend.

"Well, no, I don't believe he's really capable of such..." he looked around. "unordered misconduct. Which is why I think something might've happened to him. Come on."

_Yank_.

"Oh no, you're not leaving here until you tell me everything. Why was your" her index finger waggled as a sarcastic asterisks. "_friend_ rifling through my house?" her voice was much more menacing than he had anticipated it capable of. John swallowed.

"Well, I think Inspector Lestrade will be able to explain everything." Then he looked upstairs, hoping that was where he might find Sherlock. "Well, maybe not everything."

John felt a small push. He turned; Emily had a large bright yellow umbrella in her hand, and the other clutching his jacket. "Well let's go then, find this bastard." John smiled gratefully, taking a step, only to be haltered back like a rabid dog on a leash.

"But if I find out that you've involved me in a gang, or some murder thing or like a drug deal, I'll find you, and I'll kill you." She threatened, and then pushed John, umbrella in hand like a lance.

The first few tentative steps up the stairs were accompanied by noisy creaks, and grimaces that contracted their whole face. But as their steps became surer of themselves, they rode up the staircase with speed. The hallway was bright, and a tabled had been turned, a vase smashed and flowers along the wet carpet. John's shoes squelched as he waded past them. The silence seemed to only override the fear, not quench it. The first door they came to was to the bathroom; the sink was destroyed on the ground, but no water was sprouting from the pipes. The shower curtain lay on the floor, the remaining tiles covered in plastic rings. The second and last door was slightly ajar, and you could hear a breeze from outside. John timidly pushed the door open. The bed sheets were strewn across the bed, clothes pulled from the wardrobe. The window was open and the cold breeze was pushed the curtains across the length of the room.

Emily hurried over and shut the window, then turned and looked at the room. "He's gone then."

"Yeah, probably." John admitted, but the fear in his heart wasn't gone; it only grew. "But if he's gone, then where's Sherlock?"He glanced around the room – amid the disarray of colors he spotted something that made his heart clench. He slowly walked over.

Please don't let it be – please.

He bent down, moved a white blouse from the way, and picked up the navy scarf. His fingers ran themselves along the length of it; it can't be – please don't.

"Whose is that?" Emily leered over John's shoulder. John's heart lurched. He turned.

"It's not yours?" he asked hesitantly. _Please_.

Emily frowned. "No, I don't own scarves; I have a phobia of choking. Why?" John gripped the scarf.

_Bzzzz._

Both eyes darted to the floor in the fraction of the vibration. Emily looked to John, then back down. Slowly, almost fearfully, John bent down and picked up the phone. There was a text.

_I have Sherlock. Come play. – JM._


	2. Chapter 2

"What is this place? Let me go! Let me _go_!"

_Arghh. _

"Who's that? Who are you? What is this place? _Let me go!_"

Sherlock raised his chin from his chest a fraction. Sharp pain attacked his temples. "Argh." He groaned.

_Thump_.

"Please. Please just let me go, I won't tell anyone. Just let me go." Someone begged. Sherlock groaned again. There was the sound of ropes being bound across from him. Sherlock wriggled his own wrists; ropes scuffed his skin – so he was a prisoner too then.

"Please. What is this place? I'm scared; just please let me go." The girl sobbed. A hand claimed the hair on the back of Sherlock's head and wretched his head up. The bright light pierced through Sherlock's lids, making him squint fiercely. The pain made Sherlock gag, but he managed to open an eye.

A girl sat across from him, hands bounder behind a chair. She had tear stains smeared across her cheeks, reddened eyes and dark brown hair. A slight curl rippled through them, and as she flicked strands from her face her eyes he was surprised how piercing they were, such a dissonant pair of colors; a mere pale blue merged with crisp green.

"That's all." A familiar voice pipped. The hand released Sherlock and his head slackened to his chest again. "Stand outside."

Expensive Italian shoes snapped against the floor as the man at the door approached the pair. _Click, click, click._

Sherlock tried to lift his head; he couldn't master any strength at all – everything felt numb and pins and needles at the same time. The man approached them, standing to attention behind Sherlock. He could feel the man's breathing against his perspiring neck; each breath in and out even – unafraid.

The girl was still sobbing, but quieter. Or maybe that was just him slipping out of consciousness again. She was stuttering inaudible words and noises, hiccuping slightly. Everything gradually dimmed down to a silence, and darkness enveloped him. He felt a heat against the side of his face, the breathing against his cheek.

"Remember me?" a voice whispered against his ear. Sherlock snapped back into consciousness, hauling his head up. Everything was blurry; how long had he been down for? The girl was still there, but her eyes were no longer red, a look of defeat upon her face. He turned his head to try and look at the man; the voice had been so familiar – but pain crippled his neck; he grimaced and faced back to the front. He had been in one position in too long, and his neck muscles were far too tense to be used strenuously so quickly.

"M-Moriarty." Sherlock Slurred. A shape shifted to the right of him; a svelte silhouette swathed in Westwood. Sherlock's tongue felt thick in his mouth, like cotton and lead were competing for his affections. He tried to concentrate on staying awake, but the time between each blink seemed to stretch on longer than the next one. He groaned; the noise vibrated through his entire skull and shook him to the depth of his bones. At last everything was quiet, and he no longer felt anything left in him. He gave in, taking one last breath, feeling himself sinking into the inky black.

There was a numb feeling in the back of his neck, and that feeling exploded into fire, tunnelling through his veins. His eyes snapped open and he gasped; drew a relieving breath of air he needed. He felt like a racehorse; his heart pounded in his chest. He gasped, breathing rapidly, struggling against his reins; thrashing wildly against the chair.

As soon as it came, the fire subsided. It was a muted roar in the depth of his five senses; now he was wide awake. A man to his right removed the needle from his neck, and then bowed to the man in front of him –

"Moriarty." Sherlock stated, exhausted.

Jim smiled. "Oh it's nice to see you against too – and here I thought you were dead."

"And you me." Sherlock managed to smirk.

Moriarty crossed his arms, a bemused look upon his face. "You handled that venom better than I thought you would've. A whole seven hours you were defending yourself against it." He frowned. "I had bet on eight."

A cold sweat broke out, and Sherlock shivered, his whole body buckling.

"Don't worry, that's special adrenaline we gave you." Jim stalked around Sherlock's chair, his shoes clicking against the ground rhythmically. "Infused with the anti-venom." He paused, his head barely above Sherlock's. "_Lucky you_." The stalking resumed.

"What do you want." Sherlock panted. The sweat matted his hair against his forehead, the shirt to his back. He could feel each beat of his heart, the blood coursing through his veins. Everything he saw seemed to be in focus, his sense heightened. It was as if he could smell fear, but that was impossible.

Jim laughed; a cackle where he threw his head back, almost mockingly. "Oh dear Sherlock." His smile vanished. "I said I would burn the heart out of you." He closed quarters between them until his face was inches from Sherlock's. "And I _will_."

Sherlock swallowed. "And how exactly do you plan to do that, Jim? Have professionals gun down people I supposedly 'love'?"

Jim sniggered. "Oh Sherlock, have some imagination! Am I so unoriginal as to repeat the same threat to someone like you?" his face suddenly darkened. "I have someone you happened to miss."

He slowly strode away from Sherlock, to the chair across from him. He put a hand on the girl's shoulder, and she shrieked, sniffling and shuddering away from his touch.

"No, please!" she screamed; tears were streaming down her cheeks again. Moriarty placed the back of his hand against her cheek, wiping away a tear, and the girl gasped, her face overtaken with fear. "Please." She whispered.

"Sherlock, I never thought of you as the paternal type." Moriarty seemed fascinated. He patted the terrified girl on the head. "But now you've just made it far too easy for me."

Sherlock stared.

"What are you talking about?" He spluttered. _It couldn't be_. **_He's bluffing._**

"_You know exactly what I'm talking about!_" Moriarty yelled, the room ringing with his words. The girl was crying even harder now, her body at an entire slant, trying to get away from Moriarty. Only her hands anchored her to that wretched chair.

"Please." She begged. "Please let me go."

"_Shut up_!" Moriarty screamed, putting a hand at his temple. He sighed an aggravated breath. "Simple people can be so frustrating sometimes."

The room was silent for a moment, the girl sobbing silently.

"What's it like in your funny little heads? It must be so boring." Moriarty murmured. Sherlock looked at him; he wasn't surprised.

"So you were there then." He muttered. Moriarty snickered.

"Of course; I've always been there – you've just never caught on." Moriarty smoothed down his suit, hands in front of him like in prayer; he rested his chin on his fingertips. "I must admit, this is a comfortable pose. No wonder you're so fond of it." Jim smiled.

Sherlock remained silent. Jim's smile slowly faded.

"The time for games is over then," he said.

"It never began." Sherlock stated. Jim's lip twitched in a wan smile. His hand went back to the girl's face, softly bringing her upright.

"Let me ask you again." Jim's smile grew a little bigger. "Do you know what I'm talking about?" his voice amused.

Sherlock paused. "No."

Jim's eyes closed and he sighed. "Alrighty then." His free hand reached into his suit, pulling out a handgun. "Guess she won't be needed then." He placed the gun against the girl's temple. The girl squealed loudly, shrinking down, burying her face in her knees. Moriarty's gun tip followed her down like the head of a heat seeking missile.

"Good bye." He chirped. His finger tightened against the trigger.

"_Okay!_" Sherlock yelled. Moriarty stopped, turned, and smiled in Sherlock's direction. He placed a hand against his ear, a wondrous look upon his face.

"What was that?" he peered at Sherlock. "Do you know what I'm talking about?"

The girl suddenly struggled harshly against her bonds, screaming. "Let me go! You sadistic people! Let me go! Please!" She cried.

"Be quiet!" Moriarty ordered. He gestured for something behind Sherlock, and a man walked over, needle in hand. He put a full dose in the girl's arm. "Leave." Moriarty said. The girl slowly lay lethargically against the back of the chair, the hoods of her dull eyes half closed. Her breathing slowed to a steady tempo, the rising and lowering of her chest like waves rippling in the sea.

"Now let's try again." Moriarty muttered, frowning. "Do – you – know – what – I'm talking about?" he growled, accentuating each word through clenched teeth.

"That depends. Are you appealing to my better nature?" Sherlock replied just as fiercely, the two predators eying each other from the opposite sides of the room.

"Now come along, you're taking all the fun out of it." Jim groaned. "Get angry! Get scared! Get _me_!" He threatened provokingly in Sherlock's face.

"Please, what's going on?" the girl whimpered. Her voice was quiet, but stern. You could see she was trying to draw all the strength she could from her body, but the shot had subdued her beyond reckoning. The aggressive tension evaporating from Jim was cooking the room. Jim sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and turned back to the girl.

"What's going on darling," Jim stroked her hair again, making her flinch sluggishly. "is that there's someone I want you to meet." He leaned down to her eye level, facing Sherlock, raising one accusing finger to him. "Do you know who that is?"

The girl slowly shook her head, eyes terrified. "Oh, well you should." Jim mused. "I'm sure he knows who you are."

Sherlock's face twitched.

"Oh," Jim grinned. "He does!" he sprang up, clapping. "Bravo! Bravo!" In two quick strides he was in front of Sherlock, his hands planted on the arms of the chair. His face was inches from Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't flinch.

"You can't lie to me; I know everything."

"Apparently not everything."

Jim's smile was wiped from his face, his eyes darkening. "I know everything." He growled. He threw a hand in the girl's direction. "_Isn't this proof enough_?" He closed quarters again. "You can't hide anything from me Sherlock. _I. Know. __**Everything**_." He marched back to the girl.

"Sherlock, allow me to introduce you to – "he patted her on the shoulder. " – Charliche Adler."

* * *

_Author's note: Charliche is pronounced 'Shar-leek' with a french roll of the tongue :)_


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock sighed, and leaned back in his chair. The girl's tears stopped, swelled at the edge of her eyes. Jim's smile was back again, his eyes half moons of menace. Sherlock could do nothing – he's restrained, and words won't do any good. Better to be quiet and do whatever is needed to get out of this alive; or at least achieve _something_.

"Oh yes." Jim uttered.

"What?" Charliche's eyes were wide and confused. "But you're –"

"Oh _yes_." Jim hissed. "Do you see now, Sherlock? On that roof I fooled you and you fooled me, but you have something I don't."

"And what's that?" Sherlock growled. Moriarty took hold of a fist full of Charliche's hair, she whimpered.

"People to _care about_." Jim's words were words of distaste on his tongue, something to despise about. "You see, you may not remember, but seventeen years ago, you met Irene Adler, per chance, per destiny." He released Charliche, and her eyes began to redden again, tears threatening to break, but silently watched Moriarty pace across the room.

"You've always found a way to keep yourself away from the real world, divorce yourself from your feelings. But as tested; corner a mutt enough and it will attack."

Jim closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath. His voice was calm and Irish when his lips separated again.

"I'll leave you two to get acquainted then."

He left the room, the door shutting with a click, leaving behind silence and quiet breathing from Charliche. Sherlock decided not to talk – instead, he began trying to figure out a way to escape. He looked at his wrists; two plastic clips were placed on each arm – one on the wrist the other on the end of the forearm. He could only move by the joint of his elbow, but his legs were left unbound. Sherlock's eye scanned the room. Maybe –

He lifted his left foot, shifting himself to reach as far as he can.

"Uh uh uh," Jim's voice tutted from somewhere in the room, through a radio. "I said talk."

Electricity was charged through the chair, making Sherlock's teeth snap together and his whole body constrict tightly. It was only for a split second as a warning, but the voltage was high, and left Sherlock's heart beating fast. He half lay on his chair, panting. Metal chairs, he thought, that's new.

"I said talk!" Jim's voice snapped when nothing happened after the shock. Slowly and painfully, Sherlock crept back up the chair until he was leaning against the back of it again. Every muscle in his body was still traumatized, and even the slightest flexing made Sherlock grimace with pain. He managed to lift his head so he could face the girl.

She had stopped crying, but her eyes and nose were still red.

"Sherlock Holmes." She said, more a question than a factual line.

"Yes." Sherlock answered quietly. His lungs felt incapacitated and in spasm, and his mouth kept twitching when he tried to open them. The tingling had begun to disappear from his fingertips, his toes and his head, but he still had trouble speaking.

"You're Sherlock Holmes." Charliche stated. Sherlock said nothing. "And that was Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock stayed quiet, words weren't needed at the moment. Far more important things had to be dealt with, for example, the tingling had resided to rest in his chest, a heavy weight making every breath labored, but he couldn't feel his shoulders and ... other parts.

"Does this mean what I think it means?" Charliche finally uttered.

"And there it is," Jim said in a sing-song voice. "I thought you liked denouncing the plot of crimes, Sherlock."

"Are you..." Charliche tentatively inquired.

"In pain? Yes." Sherlock answered sternly. Why couldn't she be quiet? He could feel a headache coming on. "Your father?" he paused. "I'm not entirely sur – "

"_Lies_!" Jim screamed. Sherlock and Charliche both grimaced as the feedback bounced around the small room. Another volt of electricity slammed into Sherlock's chair. This jolted Sherlock upright, sending feeling to every bit of Sherlock's body including other parts.

" – Gah!" Sherlock gasped as the electricity was turned off. He took deep rasping breaths as he hung his head, sweat dripping from his brow. "I'm not lying." He said.

"Don't lie to –"

"I'm not _lying!_" Sherlock yelled. He panted, trying to refill his lungs. "If you did your research you would know I suffer from long term memory loss – Mycroft and I didn't play the fairest games. I have no memory of the year you claim this happened." He felt light headed, like all the air was drawn from his lungs. There was silence on the other end of the microphone, and Charliche had no answer.

"Call the hospital. Saint Patoinette Clarisse. I was admitted for two months." Sherlock managed, breathless. There was silence for a few blissful moments while Sherlock rested, slowly regaining his regular breathing patterns, while Charliche watched on, helpless.

"Patient 1093, head injury due to falling from a balcony? Oh my, your family history sure is colorful." Jim mused. "Alright-y then, if you won't remember, I'll help you." His voice sounded more threatening than the tone that would be regularly associated with the last three words. Sherlock's breathing tripped.

"Does a man called Mad Marley help?" Jim's voice smiled.

"No." Sherlock lied.

"What about Neyonme Kunis?"

"No." Sherlock lied, but quickly caught himself. "Of course it wouldn't help, she's Mycroft's fiancé."

Soft chuckling came over the speaker. "Oh silly Sherlock – I can always tell when you're lying." His voice hardened. Sherlock prepared himself for more electrotherapy.

"No, wait!" Charliche cried. Sherlock looked at her, a questioning stare. "I-I-I-I know what you're talking about." She stammered. "Just-just please don't hurt him again."

"Oh," Jim's voice held a curious questioning tone. "seems like you both share a common flaw."

Charliche avoided Sherlock's eyes as Jim continued. "Like father like daughter." There was an impatient sigh from Jim. "Well, get on with it then."

Charliche glanced frantically around the room. Sherlock immediately caught on to what was going on.

"No! W–" His words arrived a second after Charliche's chair was charged, leaving her breathing heavily in her chair, hands clutching the arms of the chair. Sherlock stared at her, a glazed look in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Now, are we going to play? Or are you –"

"Yes." Sherlock complied.

Jim hesitated, but continued talking. "Good." He hesitated again; that's strange. "It's not like you to give in so easily."

Sherlock sat in silence, the only sound being Charliche's heavy breathing. Jim wanted to attack him again – electrocute him, scream at him until his ears bleed; but it just didn't seem fun anymore. Sherlock had stopped fighting back mentally, and he was the only one who could match Jim. Jim sighed, and rubbed the brow of his nose. How troublesome.

"I capture the only man who is me, but is at the same time against me, and he gives up. Why are people so damn disappointing." Jim muttered to himself. He slowly lowered his finger and pressed the microphone button.

"I said –"

"I know what you said." Sherlock announced. He wasn't yelling, but it seemed like his voice vibrated through the wall. "And I'm complying. I remember. I do now. I'll tell you anything you want. But you let her go. This feud is between us two – and us two only. You let her go, and I swear to give up the fight." He stopped, then slowly turned his head, staring squarely at the lens of the security camera.

"Or should I say, I _won't_ stop fighting."

Jim couldn't help but allow a smile to creep back upon his face. So Sherlock _did_ know what he wanted.

"You let her go, and I won't stop fighting, until the last breath in my body."

"Come now, Sherlock." Jim said. "What's wrong with considering her as ... Collateral damage?"

Sherlock looked to Charliche. She was lying in her chair, eyes closed; maybe she was passed out, maybe she was meditating. As if I want to know, Jim thought.

"_Make_ her leave. Be my guest." Jim set down the rules.

Sherlock stopped, sighed. "Wake her up." He waited. Jim was hesitant, but amused. He pressed the button for Charliche's chair.

Charliche squealed as she was jolted awake by a gentle shock. "What. Oh did I –"

"I raped her." Sherlock said.

Charliche froze.

"What?"

"I raped Irene Adler, that's what Moriarty wants me to tell you." Sherlock forced it out of himself. Charliche began to shake. There was more than just silence between them two now. Sherlock could smell the fear coming off her – but more pungently; anger.

"Let me out." She whispered quietly at first. But she kept repeating it until she was screaming at the top of her lungs, her eyes never leaving Sherlock's, thrashing in her chair. "_Let me out! Let me out!_"

The door opened, and a man walked in.

"Please follow Mr Moran, Charliche." Jim instructed.

The man cut Charliche loose and waited to follow her out the door. Charliche stopped beside Sherlock's chair, and looked down at him. He met her gaze; her eyes were welled up with tears, and she was crying – harder than she had cried in the beginning. She looked like she wanted to say something, but with one final frown, tears sliding down her face, she turned and left.

"I never want to see you again." She said as she left. The door closed softly. The room was quiet again.

"Is that what you wanted?" Sherlock said.

"Lies. Always the answer for everything." Jim said emotionlessly.

Next to the room, Jim tried to smile at the monitor; this is exactly what he expected. But somehow, he felt like he didn't have the upper hand anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

"What?" Lestrade's face whipped around, his expression wide and alarmed. "Moriarty did what?"

"He's got Sherlock," John gasped, breathless. Running all the way to the station had reminded him just how painful running without Sherlock had been. With no expectant hope keeping his heart afloat, he had ran dragging the lead weight behind him like a train in tow instead. "We have to-we have to save him. Come on." He tried to grab Lestrade's hand.

"John!" Lestrade called, pulling his hand away, walking around the corner of his desk. "Moriarty's dead! John look at me! Moriarty's dead! You were there! We cremated him!" Lestrade tried to grasp John's shoulders, but John was disorientated; the blood draining from his brain from the excessive exercise.

"No," He said groggily. "Sherlock's still-"

"Sherlock's dead." Lestrade said, his voice cold and flat. "And so is Moriarty." He turned his head to try and catch John's gaze. "John. You were so much better, what happened?"

John managed to push Lestrade off onto his desk, causing such a ruckus that Sally Donovan had to pop her head in to check up on them two.

"You two alright?" She asked.

"Yeah. Just- just leave him alone." Lestrade said, holding up a hand. Sally hesitated, but then left. "John." Lestrade said, turning his hand palm up and offering it to John. "John, sit down, please. You…you're tired, sit and rest."

"No, no you don't understand." John said. "I lost him once, I'm not going-" he tried to get air into his lungs. "I'm not going to lose him again." His voice broke on the last word, and he collapsed into one of the chairs, sobbing silently. "Please."

Lestrade was about to say something, decided against it, and sighed instead. "Look John-"

"You don't understand." John said.

"No, I don't. I bloody well don't know why you're like this!" Lestrade snapped. "Sherlock is gone. Three months ago you accepted that. You … you started smiling again. We were all hopeful, John."

"But that's just it." John said, looking straight at Lestrade. "Sherlock's not dead."

"Oh John." Lestrade said, burying his face in his hands. "Don't do this."

"No really." John pleaded. "He really _is _alive. _That's_ the real reason I started smiling again. You think I really would've moved on from his death, Greg? Really? Do you know what he had to come home to?"

Lestrade didn't move, but he didn't speak either.

"I…He pried the gun out of my hand. That's when I saw him. I… I was so glad it was him to take it from me, to save me from me. Please Greg. You have to believe me." John said.

"And Sherlock just decided to come back to Baker Street without telling anyone? Not even his brother? Mrs Hudson?" Lestrade replied.

"But Moriarty's not dead either. That's why I couldn't tell anyone he was back. That's why you have to believe me. That's what's happened. The more people that knew he was back, the more people he put in danger. He.." John trailed off. "He died once, for me; for us. I'm not just going to sit around and let him die again."

"But he is dead, John. He was buried. I watched him get put into the coffin, and that coffin lowered into the bloody ground, covered with three feet of bloody dirt." Lestrade argued. "No one's that smart."

"He is." John said. His face was a calm emotionless sea, but his eyes were so sad, and tears were threatening to explode into existence, but the sergeant held them back. "Please Greg. Just. Just at least come with me to where he was taken." John said, leaning forward slightly. His entire body language just pulsed with vulnerability and desperation. "Please." He whispered.

Lestrade held his breath, contemplating his decision, and was about to open his mouth when Sally and Anderson opened the door, walking in unannounced. "The creep is back?" Sally growled. "What's next? He'll fake a kidnapping of the queen herself?"

"I really don't think you should go, Lestrade."Anderson suggested.

"Shut up Anderson!" John and Lestrade both said at the same time. As if that was the sign they needed, Lestrade got up off the desk and took his coat with him. John followed.

"Wha- you're not seriously thinking of going with him to save the freak?" Sally yelled as Lestrade walked past her. "He killed people! He's a fraud!"

"Sherlock Holmes was no such thing, and if you don't shut up right now I'll demote you so far you'll be working in China." Lestrade growled back. Even John was caught off guard.

It was silent as John and Lestrade sat in the car, waiting for the red light to turn green. John's stomach rumbled, and Lestrade realized it was lunchtime back at the station. He unconsciously licked his lips.

"Maybe we should get some lun-"

"No. We have to get there before anything gets tampered with." John stated. His voice was so straight forward Lestrade realized it was useless fighting with him when they were already in a car together, heading off to somewhere where he himself had just complied to going.

When they got out of the police car at the apartment, Emily was sitting outside waiting for them.

"What's this?" she hissed. "You can't arrest me! I didn't do anything!"

"No, ma'am, we're just going to look at the crime scene, that's all." Lestrade assured her, flashing his badge. The house was colder than John had remembered it, or was it just always spring when Sherlock was around?

"Christ." Lestrade said, eyeing the place down. "Okay, let's go upstairs."

When they entered the bedroom, the window was closed, and the piles of clothes were still there. Except for one item of clothing.

"Where." John hurried over, bent trying to find it. "It was just here. It was his, Greg. He left his phone wrapped in it, and…and.." John said, feeling at his pockets. "Shit."

"What is it?" Lestrade said, tilting his head slightly. John pivoted on his foot, still squatting.

"His phone's gone too."

"So, you're telling me this could be a crime scene, or this could be some after party for some girls gone wild film? You have lost both of your most critical evidence, and you expect me to believe two people just sprung back from the dead as if it's a natural thing?" Lestrade said. "Look, I respect you, John. I respected you enough to come here, but this is ridiculous." He started walking out the door. "Maybe Anderson was right." He muttered.

"Wait!" John yelled, but Greg was already down the stairs. He turned to Emily. "You!" He pointed. She flinched, backing away.

"What?" She whimpered.

"What did you do with it? The scarf? The phone?" He demanded.

"I-I didn't do anything! I swear! I'm sorry, I just thought you might not want me to disturb the crime scene so I waited outside." She cried, hitting the wall.

"_You're lying_!" He screamed, slamming his fist down on either side of her. She squealed, and flinched, ducking down under him. She stumbled and tripped onto the floor.

"Please!" She cried, trying to crawl away on her elbows. "I swear I didn't do anything!"

John came at her, and was about to raise a hand when someone grabbed him from behind.

"John! Calm down!" Lestrade strained at his arms. He had them pinned to his back, and was trying to stay on his feet; John may be small, but he was a strong soldier. "John!" He yelled.

John growled and ripped Lestrade off himself, twisting around, and swiping at him. His punch missed, and Lestrade relayed one back to him, hitting him on the right cheek. John hit the wall, then slid to the ground.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, ma'am." Lestrade panted. Emily lay shivering on the floor, staring at John. John groaned tried to get to his knees, but Lestrade was already down there with him, pulling out handcuffs.

"I'm sorry John, but you're going to have to come with me." He said. John shook his head, getting up with Lestrade's help, hands cuffed behind him.

"I just want him back." He sobbed.

"I know mate, but threatening and assaulting people isn't the way to do it."

John turned his head to glance at Lestrade. "Does that mean you believe me?"

"No."


End file.
